


The valley of the shadow of death

by Quilljoy



Category: A Song of Ice and Fire - George R. R. Martin, Game of Thrones (TV)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Modern Setting, Blood and Gore, Emotional Manipulation, M/M, all the tws
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2014-10-31
Updated: 2014-10-31
Packaged: 2018-02-23 08:32:44
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,723
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/2541182
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Quilljoy/pseuds/Quilljoy
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Part of the Bolton Fic X Change. I was given the prompt: "coercion/manipulation, knifeplay, supernatural/occult (maybe?), Roose getting Robb to lay with him and being very bad touch about it."</p>
<p> </p>
<p>  <i>Robb had to steady himself after getting up. He swayed so obviously that Roose Bolton placed a hand behind his lower back for support. Little warmth spread from the man’s touch. But Robb got back to his feet, and managed to follow the path he was intended to once Mr. Bolton guided him to the stairs, and down to the basement.</i></p>
            </blockquote>





	The valley of the shadow of death

**Author's Note:**

  * For [thatgirlwhodraws](https://archiveofourown.org/users/thatgirlwhodraws/gifts).



> I apologize for the tardiness! This took epic proportions; I'm so very sorry the first chapter ended where it ended. The second will be up soon, pinky promise.

It was a dark and stormy night. 

 

Drenched to the bones, Robb Stark clung to his umbrella before the wind could tear it off of his hands. His hair was wet, his coat was wet. Thick fat raindrops ran down his forehead and clouded his vision everytime he blinked. With his father’s journal protectively tucked under an arm - the only part of him he could stuck down the umbrella and ever hope to remain dry - he plucked a page from it and attempted reading.

 

_Bolton, Roose. Dreadfort Rd. 16._

 

The downpour drowned their screeching as the umbrella flipped, the ribs twisting on their hinges despite Robb’s growing effort to keep the metal frame in one piece. A stream of water licked the paper and turned it translucent before Robb could even worry about the ink running and wrecking his new gloves. 

 

The address dissolved in his hands, but not before Robb checked it against the number plastered against the wall in front of him.

 

Roose Bolton lived in a luxurious flat that rose up to five floors; modernity condensed into a small size for modesty’s sake. The building was all clear glass and tall windows. Robb backed off, and found himself downright impressed it didn’t fall apart amidst the storm.

 

It did make him sigh in relief, though.

 

What was he expecting, after all? An old manor? Bats flying off the windows? Robb scoffed at his own childish expectations, courtesy of none other than Greyjoy and his unrelenting teasing about Mr. Bolton’s pale, nondescript features. Alright, a stylish place was an odd choice for an occultist, but it felt reassuring. His father wouldn’t have trusted a man who lived in a cartoonish parody of a vampire’s house. 

 

And no matter how little he’d actually seen Mr. Bolton eat, there was absolutely no way he was anything other than an ordinary businessman. 

 

(“Ordinary” in the same way his father used to be, of course.)

 

Robb grit his teeth. He was letting Greyjoy get to him, of all people. Roose Bolton was a scary man, back when they’d meet at family reunions and Robb could run off to hide under the table. He used to be such a wimp. Mr. scary occultist guy. Probably hides dead bodies in his backyard, Theon said. Robb had been too young to believe in anything else, but things had changed quickly enough for him to take a deep breath and rang the intercom.

 

Theon was gone. His father was gone. Robb wasn’t a child anymore.

 

The voice that welcomed him in was hoarse and decrepit, nothing Robb could associate with Mr. Bolton; yet, past the gates, he never met anyone else. It struck Robb as an oddity, as he was certain the man had at least one son - and whom did that old voice belonged to? In the end, it didn’t matter. They were allowed their privacy as much as anyone else, even if his mother would feel offense on his behalf, later, if she ever learnt nobody welcomed him inside and showed him the property…

 

It didn’t matter. He’d arrived unannounced, anyway. Robb marched straight to the main doors, ignoring the strange lack of staff whirling around - even though it was indeed late in the afternoon. He left his umbrella for dead in the porch. The cold bit; but the journal pressed against his chest radiated warmth.

 

Roose Bolton did not invite him in, but he opened his door almost immediately.

 

He was a common man, smaller than Robb remembered him. He was thin, but not gaunt. His hair was peppered gray where it wasn't raring, and if it weren't for his striking blue eyes, Robb would have mistaken him for an ordinary middle aged man. He didn't look like the man who forced Robb into hiding behind his father's legs; only Robb stared into his eyes, and then he did.

 

"Robb Stark."

 

Robb blinked out of his reverie and flushed appropriately before extending Bolton a hand. He didn't enjoy being caught staring, but the fault was his own for distracting himself. In his childhood, Bolton had always towered over other men. He wasn't strong like his father, or hulking as Robert Baratheon. But he'd been frightening. It was hard remembering why, now, but a glimpse of his stare, absent and cold, and Robb felt five again.

 

"Mr. Bolton." The words were sticking into the ceiling of his mouth, suddenly dry."I hope you forgive my intrusion."

 

He was raining mud on Bolton's spotless porch, now caked with dark stains. Robb pressed his lips together in an effort not to look away. He was a Stark. If all the things, he was within his right of being there. The Boltons had been a powerful family once, but they had been forced to bow down to the Starks and survive - or perish fighting. Roose Bolton had been smart enough to pick the right choice.

 

Still. There was no warmth in his eyes for the eldest Stark child. If Robb hadn't known the difference between loyalty and obligation, he'd have learnt it at that moment.

 

His bones rattled from the cold, but the orange light faintly illuminating Bolton from behind told him a fire was burning inside his home.

 

"Can I come in?"

 

Bolton cocked an eyebrow, a tiny fraction of movement into his otherwise stony face. At least the shame that spread through Robb's body should keep him warm. When should a king ask for their subject's permission? But Robb lowered his head, and walked in only after Bolton gave him passage.

 

He shrugged his coat out, manners forgotten once he took the effort to act like his father's son. There was a fine line between impositions and disrespect, and Robb still stumbled between the two sides. He was fair and honorable; most of his father's men pledged allegiance to him once Robb found Ned's head wrapped in a gift bag in front of his door. But he still didn't know the Bolton family's instance on that. Maybe, with his father gone, he'd be pushed into a fight not only against the Lannisters. How likely it was, that his own men would turn against him because he was a child, whom they expected to manipulate-

 

"You are ruining the floor."

 

Robb blinked out of his reverie.

 

"Oh." He frowned. Yes. What a great way to make amends. Mr. Bolton probably held his floor in higher regard that Ned's soon, who'd laughed at him behind his back and hidden from him at meetings. "I apologize. Is there somewhere..?"

 

Bolton picked up his coat with a hint of distaste in his upper lip, disappearing behind a door and coming back with a towel.

 

"The restroom is to your left."

 

"No, it's alright, I-"

 

"Please."

 

Robb stood unsure, blinking. Despite the soft tone in Roose Bolton's voice, it was a command, not a request. There was no trace of impatience to it, but a strain between his eyebrows denoted he felt weary, as if talking to a boy.

 

Robb tightened his jaw and curled his hand into a fist.

 

"Thank you." The reply came out more forcefully than he intended. He had no illusions that talking to the head of Bolton family would be an easy task, but the disrespect, if not blatant, was insulting. He gave the man a sharp nod before making his way to the restroom, taking great care not to walk over the rug with his wet steps. It was only then that Robb waved away his daze at Mr. Bolton to truly look around and make head and tails of what the apartment looked like.

 

Despite Robb's initial assumptions that the place was too modern for a man whose family specialized in the occult, there was a somber - if not outright sinister - look to it. He'd thought the glass windows, covering the walls from top to bottom, would make for a light and breezy place, but a heavy atmosphere hung in the room. Thick drapes forbid the storm's night light from entering, and the only source of clarity was the fireplace. It was the contemporary type; no ashes and no smoke. But the light it casted in the room was ominous, painting the furniture a dark wine color.

 

Too many shadows in too many dark places, Robb realized. There was a reason for his discomfort around Mr. Bolton.

 

The feeling didn't diminish once he was inside the restroom, although Robb felt a distinct relief at being out of Bolton's sight. He grasped for purchase at the sink, leaning and taking the weight out of his weary legs as he breathed to calm himself. From the mirror, an unkempt young man stared back.

 

No wonder Roose Bolton treated him as a child, if he kept acting like one. Looking like one. With his messy red curls sprawled over his forehead, and the gray of his eyes dragging attention to his lack of sleep, he doubted any sane man would follow him.

 

Robb undid his scarf and peeled the clothes out of his body in an attempt to make himself presentable - and not drenched and pitiful like a cat. He took the towel as an invitation to shower; he wasn't going to get any drier just by cleaning his hair. Bolton's leather couch would be thankful.

 

The hot water felt blissful against his skin. It burnt and left red trails where it passed, but Robb washed away the grime that came with the rain, and felt, for the first time in the night, a little more presentable. A little more welcome than he first thought, when Mr. Bolton allowed Robb to make himself a proper guest, instead of an unannounced visit in All Hallow’s Eve.

 

He had a penchant for tradition as well as his father, he supposed. For all that Ned had written in his journal about Mr. Bolton, this had been always very clear. There were certain rules for what he did - and his father had never been really clear about what the Boltons did, though legends were vivid to the point of being explicit - and Robb should conduct himself in the appropriate manner. Obey the head of the Bolton house. Not being arrogant and cocky, and think he knew better. Pay attention. Be careful, most of all.

 

The Boltons were a dangerous sort. But Robb needed their help, as much as his father once did.

 

Robb didn't want to be presumptuous, but there was a robe hanging behind the door. Almost as if the man was expecting a visit - the thought crossed his head. But Mr. Bolton couldn't possibly expect the heir to house Stark to put back his wet clothes, and the restroom was too small not to be for guests.

 

(According to Theon, Roose Bolton bathed in a large chamber where he could be leeched by a servant. He wasn't seeing the leeches. Nor the servants. The idea itself was stupid in the first place, and Robb waved it away, but in any case someone like this man couldn't possibly bathe in that cramped little room.)

 

It was humbling almost as much as it was embarrassing to face a man wearing a robe, but Robb supposed that was his intent. To put Stark's heir in his place. Their families had quarreled once; Robb accepted it with the most humility he could muster that he'd have to balance both his honor and strength, and his will to please. Too soft, and Mr. Bolton wouldn't respect him. Too rough, and the man would think him a spoiled brat.

 

For the old gods and the new; he wasn't getting used to these games so soon!

 

"I hope you don't mind."

 

Mr. Bolton was sitting on the couch, cradling a glass of Arbour Red. He barely cast Robb a glance, though he knew what he was talking about.

 

"The robe was there for you to use."

 

"Did you know I was coming?"

 

"Perhaps. Eddard Stark is dead but his empire goes on. You're his eldest heir. I was pledged to your family."

 

Was, not am. Bolton continued.

 

"I don't need foresight to imagine you coming to me, although I have to confess, it took longer than I thought."

 

"Did I cause you offense?"

 

"Did you intend to?"

 

His gaze, once it shifted towards him, was penetrating. It pinned Robb against the couch and he couldn't move; couldn't do anything but wish Mr. Bolton would go back to stare into the fire, and not...

 

Into his soul? Did it make any sense? No, he decided. He was giving Greyjoy too much credit for his stories.

 

The fact was that he felt uncomfortable enough to shift in his place, tales true or false.

 

"No, of course not."

 

Roose Bolton's eyes fell down to his lap, where Ned's journal laid. Only then Robb realized he was fidgeting, thumb toying with the elastic band that kept it closed. He tugged his hand away immediately and the band snapped into place, cutting through the silence of the room.

 

The blush crept down his neck and under the robe. Thankfully, the room was dimly lit, and Mr. Bolton showed no sign of noticing the hot redness that made his cheeks bright.

 

"It's my father's," Robb stated the obvious. It was the only belonging that Robb bothered keeping dry; the leather was old and battered, but if it depended on him, it'd outlast them all. Clutching the journal for courage, he moved on. “He’s been very clear that, despite our past, your family has been helping ours for generations.”

 

“And I assume you’ve come here to give me your thanks?”

 

The knots in Robb’s fingers grew white with pressure. He rose his head and stared Roose Bolton from the top.

 

“I’m here to ask you for help once more.”

 

That earned him a smile. It wasn’t an honest one, Robb wouldn’t go so far as calling it that. Mr. Bolton’s upper lip curved slightly, giving him an air of sarcasm that had more emotion to it than anything he’d ever seen the man express. Robb kept his eyes up for as long as he could, before slipping away, Bolton’s gaze unwavering - not judgmental, not yet - but he couldn’t help but think…

 

He was unprepared. It came to him unfaltering like the basest knowledge; in the same way Robb knew an apple tossed upwards would eventually fall down. He was young and stupid, and unlike his father in every way. He’d fail, and the proof was staring at his reddening face at that very moment. How could someone like him ever hope to crush the Lannisters, if he couldn’t even sway his own allies?

 

Yet… Instead of sending him away, Mr. Bolton set his glass on the table, and reached for the bottle of wine. Robb had at least the decency to catch it before his host could, and serve him with an air of subservience he’d to master for these sort of situations. You had to know when to demand favors, and when to ask gently. Robb understood right then that Roose Bolton would never come to respect him - for his age or for his personality, or even for his past foolishness, Robb would never know - but even then. Even then Mr. Bolton was _listening_.

 

“Do tell how you expect me to be of service.”

 

There was no glass for himself. Robb cleared his throat instead.

 

“In his journal, my father details he consulted with you on certain matters… I… Confess he’s not been very specific.”

 

“But you’ve heard things about me.”

 

“I’ve heard things about you, yes.” Robb pressed his lips together, unsure it was the right answer until the man uncrossed his legs, interest picked. Encouraged, he continued: “About your family, to be more specific.”

 

“Positive things, I hope.”

 

It was incredibly hard to identify any trace of sarcasm in his voice.  

 

“It’s hard for me to be direct, when it seems like something… childish.” Robb attempted a half-smile, which did not gain the man’s sympathy, but left his jaw aching as he put all his effort into being liked. Flattery had worked for most of his people, and so had humour. Bolton had none of it. “But even if my father was certainly obtuse in certain aspects of his writing, well… He was very clear that he valued you for your skills as much as your opinions.”

 

“We did not always see eye to eye, it’s true. As for my skills...”

 

“Sorcery.”

 

That caused an unexpected reaction in Roose Bolton. For a split second he looked surprised; but it happened so suddenly Robb knew it to be a trick of the light. A flicker in the fireplace, or the storm peering through the curtains.

 

“What have you been hearing about me exactly, _child_?”

 

The word sent shivers down his spine. Robb grit his teeth in an effort not to scream. Tantrum throwing would do him a disservice, so he laughed, feigning amusement at his own mistake, smiling sheepishly afterwards to appease a man that showed no forgiveness.

 

“You deal with the occult. I suppose… I suppose it’s why my father has been so successful in his line of business. With the help of men like you, it’s easy to throw the odds in one’s favor… We both deal in death, either way. Yours only seem to be a tad more specific than mine.”

Truth to be told, his father had rambled about the damnation in Bolton’s method. A necessary evil, Ned named. Not always necessary. Much overdone. Yet… Yet the Stark family itself dealt with matters of life and death, dealing executions and punishing those under Baratheon’s laws. How could they be so different? Was there so much cruelty in everything his father had left untold?

 

It couldn’t possibly be. His father would never trust a man who didn’t fit his personal views, Robb decided stubbornly. And neither did he. Roose Bolton dealt with something he couldn’t begin to understand, but he had to, now. For his own sanity.

 

“Has your father ever told you what I _actually_ do?”

 

“He… I… I seemed to be under the impression that you dealt with… what didn’t belong to this world. As in… Spirits, or possessions, or... ” He needed a drink desperately. “What my father actually wrote was that you’d call to entities. Spirits. And they’d answer you, whatever you asked of them, or by them. They’d obey to your commands, and you’d obey the Starks, and that’s how we’ve been obtaining confessions for ages. From the victims, more than the accused.”

 

Something in his sentence made Mr. Bolton oddly amused, because the man inclined slightly forwards - dangerously close, almost intimate. There was a light to his eyes. Robb knew he wasn’t seeing things this time.

 

“I am certainly experienced in extracting confessions from the accused,” Mr. Bolton told him. “But yes. Some other elements of persuasion are needed. And there are things in this modern world of ours that men like your father and men like Robert Baratheon would not comprehend - nor approve. But do tell me. With whom do you expect to talk?”

 

There was the confirmation he needed in a heartbeat. Robb did not need to think.

 

“My father.”

 

Mr. Bolton held his own chin, pensive.

 

“Do you take me for a necromancer?”

 

“No,” Robb responded firmly - perhaps the only time in the night where he showed this man no doubt. His impetuous nature showed more than his restraint; he’d allowed Roose Bolton to see his weakness, and would not tolerate being mocked for it. “I don’t want you to resurrect my father, I’m not a child looking for fairytale ending. I’ll avenge him, when the time comes. But right now, I _need to talk to him_.”

 

He might’ve talked more forcefully than he intended, because Roose Bolton seemed to listen to him. The man rose from the couch, stopping Robb with a gesture when Robb made to follow him, and - thankfully, finally - caught him a glass. Robb drank the wine as if it were water. Mr. Bolton eyed him in disapproval. He’d enough discernment to realize the bottle had been expensive, yet he couldn’t bring himself to care. If the man had served him in the first place, he wouldn’t have been so thirsty. 

 

“I think it’s time you see for yourself what my job entails.”

 

Robb had to steady himself after getting up. He swayed so obviously that Roose Bolton placed a hand behind his lower back for support. Little warmth spread from the man’s touch. But Robb got back to his feet, and managed to follow the path he was intended to once Mr. Bolton guided him to the stairs, and down to the basement.

 

The alcohol had risen to his head far too quickly for Robb to realize what he’d been seeing. The light was so strong it was blinding, and Robb had to blink away the tears rapidly, his eyes accustomed to the darkness from Bolton’s living room.

 

It was the smell that got to him first. It was so clean. Antiseptic, like a hospital. 

 

As if someone had forcefully wiped away every surface with bleach. 

 

His subconscious must’ve picked up the clues before his own eyes did. Robb stood still for a good couple of minutes, glancing at the white tiled floors to the strange implements spread across a metal table, whose wheels creaked slightly once Mr. Bolton climbed down the steps and approached it. 

 

There was a stretcher, with leather straps attached to it in four different places. There was a machine meant for monitoring vital signs. It looked too much like a surgery room.

 

Robb knew it wasn’t one. Probably by the body still strapped against the stretcher. 

 

Luckily, Mr. Bolton caught him by the arm before Robb embarrassed himself by fainting. Robb leaned his back against the wall and, once he was secure, Mr. Bolton walked down to the stretcher and began untying the straps.

 

There was a groan.

 

But it wasn’t possible.

 

“You see,” Mr. Bolton started. “There’s a fundamental problem to the extraction of confessions. It’s not the strong men who worry me most. They always give in, eventually, if they realize what’s best for us all. It’s the weak men, who break before something intelligible could be heard from their lips.”  

 

Robb couldn’t even begin to figure out if the creature there was a man or a woman. It could’ve as well been an animal, for all its skin had been peeled off, and Robb could only see the red of its muscles. It groaned once again - louder. Despite its state, it put up a struggle. Mr. Bolton didn’t even acknowledge it was _alive_. 

 

“If it pleases you, take in consideration that your father did not approve of my actions, despite needing them. I’m good at what I do. I’ll not be shamed for that. Your father needed me, because weak men tell nothing. Weak men break before I’m done with them.” 

 

Sighing, Mr. Bolton eyed the straps, a frown at the blood sticking to the stretcher. As if it wasn’t supposed to be there in the first place.

 

“There’s an… alternative, though. Victims of the violent crimes these perpetrators commit never rest peacefully. They’re often drawn in by violence itself - violence and sex, two of humanity’s basest needs.” He explained, suddenly teacher-like. “It works particularly well when they have a connection to the one in the stretcher. And once their spirit is present, it’s easier to bend them to your will. Say, to attain evidence only the victim could have possibly known about. Enough to convict someone. Of course, these are the uses your father needed from me. There are others.”

 

Roose Bolton shrugged. He tied the straps for the man’s wrists once more and rolled the cart with the stretcher and the thing in it outside of Robb’s view.

 

That’s what the wine had been for. Robb should’ve drunk more. When Mr. Bolton came back, he was wearing gloves.

 

“Knowing what you do now, _do you still want to talk to your father_?”

 

Robb blinked away the alcohol-induced daze. Victims of violent crimes, attracted by the scent of blood from someone they knew. A connection, Mr. Bolton said. Any connection. Robb smiled faintly, wanting to puke.

 

“Will it work with _my_ blood?”  

 

“Of course. You weren’t the one who cut off your father’s head, I hope, but I hardly see a connection more fitting from you to your father than your blood itself.”

 

“Good.” Robb nodded. Trying to convince himself. “Good.”

 

Mr. Bolton laid a cold hand against his shoulder and Robb’s heart stopped in its tracks. He was guided - almost gently, he’d have to say - back again to the stairs.

 

“We don’t need to do this down here. You’re Stark’s son, after all.”

 

Robb looked back at him, searching for the confidence he didn’t have. And for the first time in the night, Roose Bolton showed Robb something akin to a smile.

 

The next steps were something from a dream itself, and before he knew it, Robb was sitting on the couch again, drinking from another glass before Mr. Bolton stopped him.

 

“I’m sorry to say you’ll have to be conscious for your next step.” He didn’t look sorry. “Unfortunately,what attracts a spirit is suffering.”

 

Of course. Robb placed the glass against the table again and attempted not to look so grim. But he supposed Mr. Bolton was accustomed to worse expressions.

 

“What’s your question?”

 

“Uh…?” 

 

“Your question.” Robb could see the man’s patience was wearing thin. Was it… excitement, he saw? A glimmer of it, where he could see nothing else but cold detachment in Mr. Bolton’s face? “What do you want to ask your father?”

 

“It’s… It’s personal, so…”

 

“I assure you,” Mr. Bolton touched him in the knee. “We’ll become very intimate in the next hours.”

 

It wasn’t right, for him to become red. But the wine… Roose Bolton had to be right; the alcohol wasn’t doing him any good. It just made him dizzy. And he couldn’t stop reeling back to what the man had said. Blood and sex. Yeah, Roose Bolton was right all along.

 

He blushed.

 

“It’s… Family matters. You probably heard of it. My marriage to the Frey girl? It was due to the next… Uh, in a couple of months.”

 

“Yes, of course. Congratulations. May I ask which one? I’m married to one myself.”

 

“You _are_?”

 

Of everything he could’ve heard at that moment, Robb couldn’t think of anything else to break through the fog that was clouding his head. This was news he hadn’t heard about. Yes, if he hadn’t been quarreling against the Lannisters, he’d have probably… But he hadn’t even sent a gift. Marriage, huh, he thought to himself. And he’s probably married to one of her sisters…  

 

But he hadn’t seen the presence of a woman there. No. Better not to ask.

 

Roose Bolton waved the question away. It didn’t matter. Robb caught his tongue before he could blurt out another stupid thing.

 

“Hum. Yes. I… I had the choice. Any Frey. But the thing is, I don’t want to marry a Frey.” Before Mr. Bolton could think it was the foolish whims of a boy, Robb moved on. He supposed it was a foolish whim, in the end. That’s why he needed his father so much. If only… If only he hadn’t died. Everything would’ve been alright now. It was stupid to want his father’s comfort, and his advice. But Robb just couldn’t believe how much he needed him. “I suppose I could, but. I’ve… I’m not in love with another, you need to understand that. It’s not because of love. But.”

 

“There’s a child.”

 

Mr. Bolton understood it before he did. Robb nodded.

 

“Yeah.”

 

The shame crashed against him together with fear. His body wracked with sobs. Despite the struggle Robb fought not to break down, he trembled so much, and he couldn’t stop, not even when Mr. Bolton glanced away, his expression twisted into - disgust? Scorn? Robb tried to stop himself but he couldn’t, so he grabbed Roose Bolton by the wrists and begged.

 

“Please.” He’d fought to steady himself, gritted teeth that wouldn’t allow emotions to show in his face anymore. He just wasn’t as skilled at it as Bolton himself. “I’ll do anything you want.”

 

“You will, in time.”

 

 

 

 

 

 


End file.
